Page 9 of Beast
Gunner was silent for a beat, and then he shook his head.“They’re nothing alike.”
Beast’s grip tightened around the bottle.He should’ve swung at him for that, should’ve said something sharp, something that would shut Gunner up—but he didn’t, because deep down, he knew his VP was right.
Pixie wasn’t Evelyn, not even close, but there was something about her.The fire in her.The way she held herself together even though he could see the fractures underneath.The hunger in her eyes, not just for food, but for survival.
Gunner sighed, stretching his legs.“Well, if you intend to make her yours, you should make it clear.”
“I don’t,” Beast shot back, too quickly.
Gunner just smirked.“Uh-huh.”
Beast ignored him, downed the rest of his beer, and pushed back from the table.He was done for the night.
The clubhouse was buzzing, music thumping low through the speakers, girls laughing, brothers talking, but none of it reached him.His head was somewhere else.Somewhere it had no damn business being.
He made his way out to his bike, needing the ride, needing the air to clear his head.The crisp night air bit at his skin as he roared down the highway, but it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.Not the ride, not the cool night air slicing across his skin, not the familiar rumble of his Harley beneath him.By the time he reached his house—the house he built for Evelyn—he was still wound tight, his body thrumming with restless energy.
He killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, staring at the darkened windows.The place felt hollow, just like it had for the past five years.A shrine to a life he no longer had.A ghost of what could’ve been.
With a heavy sigh, Beast swung his leg off the bike and made his way up the steps, unlocking the door and stepping inside.The scent of wood and old leather greeted him, familiar and unchanging.He hadn’t moved much since Evelyn passed.Her touches were still everywhere—the bookshelf she insisted on, the couch she curled up on, the framed pictures he could never bring himself to take down.
But tonight, it wasn’t Evelyn’s face haunting him.It was Pixie’s.
Beast kicked off his boots, stripped out of his shirt, and dropped onto the bed.He was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easy.Not when his mind was full of her.The scent of her.The way she’d looked at him earlier, eyes shadowed with something unreadable.When he finally drifted off, it wasn’t to the darkness he was used to.It was to her.
He dreamed of Pixie—of her lips parting on a gasp as he pinned her against the bar, of his hands sliding under her worn sweatshirt, mapping the soft curves hidden beneath.She shivered in his arms, not from fear but from want, and fuck, he wanted her too.Wanted to taste her, to hear his name on her lips in that breathy little voice of hers.
In the dream, she wasn’t running.She wasn’t afraid.She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
His hands gripped the sheets as his breathing grew heavier, the dream shifting, sharpening.He had her under him now, her body pressed against his, bare and warm, her fingers digging into his back as she arched into him.She moaned his name, and he swore he felt it against his skin.
Then—
He woke with a start, a ragged breath tearing from his throat.
His body was tense, overheated, his sheets twisted around him.His pulse pounded hard and heavy, his entire being still caught in the remnants of the dream.He ran a rough hand over his face, trying to shove it away, but the image of her lingered.
He cursed under his breath.This was a bad idea.A terrible fucking idea.He had no business wanting her, and yet he did.More than he should.More than was safe.
With a growl, he pushed out of bed, heading to the shower.He needed cold water.Anything to drown out the heat Pixie had burned into his skin, even if she didn’t know it.
